


little scapegoat

by desvelo



Category: VALORANT (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood and Injury, Dominance, Dubious Consent, M/M, Rough Sex, kicking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 03:08:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28628550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/desvelo/pseuds/desvelo
Summary: Sova takes out the day's failures on Phoenix.
Relationships: Phoenix/Sova (VALORANT)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23





	little scapegoat

Sova is seething. Their quarry had escaped again, lost to the alleys of Shibuya. In the tension the transport is full of humid, buzzing air. His shoulder jostles Phoenix, who taps his foot against the bottom of the seat. Across from them sit Cypher and Reyna, whose evil feeds off one another. Even in the tiny cabin those two can make their voices unintelligible, running right below the limits of human hearing; the only thing Sova can understand is Reyna’s glinting eye when she sneers his way. The truck hits a bump or runs something over and shakes the cabin. Cypher leers towards the younger men. Had he ever taken that mask off, his face would be all needlepointed teeth. “Pretty boys, you’re awfully quiet. What’s wrong? Something the matter?” 

“Pay him no mind,” grits Sova. Phoenix drums his fingers on the seat. 

Reyna giggles. “It’s a good question. Usually when you are together the two of us can tell. Are you only loud when you think no one can hear?” Cypher’s cyborg eyes wink. The transport rattles again. 

“Y’all need to mind your own business.” Sova shushes Phoenix. 

“Ah, but what is good for the team is my business, and between a team what good are secrets? I see you limp out of our little archer’s room even if the others don’t.” Cypher presses his hands together in prayer. “But I also want what’s good for my dear friends. Maybe we can decide a way to keep your secrets.” 

“Perv.” 

“You must stop talking to him.” Sova’s lip shakes with rage. Phoenix looks away. 

“Mis queridos, we mean no harm. We’ll return to this another day. Still we have lots of time together.” She flashes them a smile. The light reflects off her teeth. 

\---

The hunter and the firebrand eat an unsatisfying meal in a stuffy little room in the bowels of the base. Sova goes to shower and passes by Reyna again, doing her hair. She’s smirking. When he gets back to his little pillbox, Phoenix is sitting on the side of the bed, scrolling on his phone. “Hey babe,” he mumbles. Music blasts as he opens some video. It’s so fucking loud Sova screws his eyes shut and rubs his hands over his face until little angels of light cloud his vision. It shuts off. He’s roiling as he squeezes his fists and falls onto the bed. 

With the thump behind him Phoenix is alert, phone away. “Hey babe,” he repeats. With a swivel he faces Sova, leans over, and plants a sweet kiss just above his upper lip. “‘M feeling a little better after all that.” Sova’s limbs are agitating. Phoenix is curled over the top of him now and he goes in for a real kiss this time. Sova meets him with his lips and a hand along his jaw and the other tangled in his neckline. That flooding warmth hits him as a giddy anger, the glee of a spider with a fly in her web. He will take it all out on him. As the younger man pulls away, Sova's grip tightens in the fabric of his shirt and he drags his blunted nails down Phoenix’s cheekbone. He thumbs the three white lines on that skin. With predatory grace Sova reverses course, gets on top of his partner, legs between legs, face close to face, hand around throat. He’s not afraid to be an animal, scratching. Phoenix is flushed red, breathing wet on Sova’s hand, unable to make eye contact. 

“Take off your shirt.” Phoenix squirms. The hand on his neck, the body on top of him pin him in his place. “I can’t,” he’s weak. 

Sova is more frigid now, more cruel. “You do as I say.” He stands. “Take off your shirt.” Gripping his forearms he tugs him down. Phoenix goes slack, marionette’s strings cut, and he ragdolls to the floor. 

Phoenix is dazed against the ground; he’s too slow to react. Being prone does not relieve you of your duties. Sova, clad in his boots, delivers a swift kick to Phoenix’s ribs. “Take off your shirt.” Phoenix is crumpled and fetal. It feels like the point of Sova’s shoe made a tunnel of gore all the way through him. He probably is cut open. He takes off his shirt. 

The hunter lords over him. “There is so little you are good for. I would kick your head in if we had no mission. And you dirtied my boot.” He presses his sole into the spreading redness where he kicked. Phoenix whines, quiet in the back of his throat. “How can I punish you and leave you whole?” He pressures that spot again, releases. Phoenix breathes heavy. Sova retrieves his belt from where he had earlier left it. “Take off everything. Don’t make me kick again.” 

A wounded deer, flechette in his side, struggles to strip. His pants catch around his ankles. Sova waits patiently-impatiently the way all executioners do. 

Now there is a beautiful boy in front of him, tendon around bone. “Turn over.” He taps the flat of his stomach with his pointed toe. Trained-obedient Phoenix gets on elbows and knees, hands clasped together at his forehead, skin blistered against the floor. Sova’s step is decisive and earthshaking; with a swing of the hip and the arm he brings the belt down. But Phoenix is too low and the hit isn’t a smack but it’s a sting, a glance of the edge of the belt off of skin. Phoenix rocks forward. Sova tries again with clenching hands and feels the same, the skip of leather off hide, an indecisive blow. He’s gripped by a fit of rage. “On the bed. On the bed.” Phoenix scrambles. 

This time the belt hits its perfect strap, the perfect band of wound across a perfect man. Phoenix digs into the sheets. Again he throws his weight around, Sova with an exterminating smile, Phoenix phased away to wherever punished boys go. Thin white lines reopen with red as Phoenix struggles to count aloud each stroke. Everything about him is glittering. With time Sova lets up, drops the belt against his boot, switches to his archer’s hand in one-two-three smacks. It’s all red too now. 

Position change again, Phoenix on his back, his stomach caving in and out, heavy. Sova leans in for the kiss, one hand on his jaw where those three white lines were, one hand stroking him, his thumb along the underside. Phoenix, still stinging, lets feeling wash over him in this valley between kinds of hurt. He’s dreaming of something. 

Sova is gentle now. Still in charge he grinds against Phoenix, pesters the side of his neck with kisses, runs teeth along his throat. With one hand he unzips, the other twisted in thick hair, sticky with drying blood. In practiced motion he guides himself into Phoenix and although there’s clothing between them they’re close to being one as Phoenix sucks in breath, bites his lip, whimpers. 

They’re slow to start but only for a second. Libido and fury are still the same, the kind of power that’s in your veins, and as Sova’s heart pumps blood he’s filled again with the sense that he’s a raptor or a wolf. He ruts, an atavist, while Phoenix gasps, resists, falls prey. It’s not a question of comfort - they’re both uncomfortable in their want - but one of primal need. 

Sova’s still fucking when Phoenix cums. He speeds up, his partner mixed up in the haze, coming off his high, and follows suit. They lie together. 

“Can’t clean up 'til the others are asleep,” says Phoenix. 

“We can wait here,” says Sova.


End file.
